Because Edith had not been feeling very well, that seemed no reason whyshe should be the centre of interest; and Bruce, with that jealousy ofthe privileges of the invalid and in that curious spirit of rivalrywhich his wife had so often observed, had started, with enterprise, anindisposition of his own, as if to divert public attention. While hewas at Carlsbad he heard the news. Then he received a letter fromEdith, speaking with deference and solicitude of Bruce's rheumatism,entreating him to do the cure thoroughly, and suggesting that theyshould call the little girl Matilda, after a rich and sainted--thoughstill living--aunt of Edith's. It might be an advantage to the child'sfuture (in every sense) to have a godmother so wealthy and soreligious. It appeared from the detailed description that the newdaughter had, as a matter of course (and at two days old), long goldenhair, far below her waist, sweeping lashes and pencilled brows, arosebud mouth, an intellectual forehead, chiselled features and a tall,elegant figure. She was a magnificent, regal-looking creature and was asuperb beauty of the classic type, and yet with it she was dainty andwinsome. She had great talent for music. This, it appeared, was shownby the breadth between the eyes and the timbre of her voice.

Overwhelmed with joy at the advent of such a paragon, and horrified atEdith's choice of a name, Bruce had replied at once by wire,impulsively:

_'Certainly not Matilda I would rather she were called Aspasia.'_

Edith read this expression of feeling on a colourless telegraph form,and as she was, at Knightsbridge, unable to hear the ironical tone ofthe message she took it literally.

She criticised the name, but was easily persuaded by her mother-in-lawto make no objection. The elder Mrs Ottley pointed out that it mighthave been very much worse.

'But it's not a pretty name,' objected Edith. 'If it wasn't to beMatilda, I should rather have called her something out ofMaeterlinck--Ygraine, or Ysolyn--something like that.'

'Yes, dear, Mygraine's a nice name, too,' said Mrs Ottley, in herhumouring way, 'and so is Vaselyn. But what does it really matter? Ishouldn't hold out on a point like this. One gets used to a name. Letthe poor child be called Asparagus if he wishes it, and let him feel hehas got his own way.'

So the young girl was named Aspasia Matilda Ottley. It wascharacteristic of Edith that she kept to her own point, though notaggressively. When Bruce returned after his after-cure, it was toolate to do anything but pretend he had meant it seriously.

Archie called his sister Dilly.

Archie had been rather hurt at the--as it seemed to him--unnecessaryexcitement about Dilly. Not that he was jealous in any way. It wasrather that he was afraid it would spoil her to be made so much of ather age; make her, perhaps, egotistical and vain. But it was notArchie's way to show these fears openly. He did not weep loudly orthrow things about as many boys might have done. His methods were moreroundabout, more subtle. He gave hints and suggestions of his viewsthat should have been understood by the intelligent. He said onemorning with some indirectness:

'I had such a lovely dream last night, Mother.'

'Did you, pet? How sweet of you. What was it?'

'Oh, nothing much. It was all right. Very nice. It was a lovely dream.I dreamt I was in heaven.'

'Really! How delightful. Who was there?'

This is always a woman's first question.

'Oh, you were there, of course. And father. Nurse, too. It was a lovelydream. Such a nice place.'

'Was Dilly there?'

'Dilly? Er--no--no--she wasn't. She was in the night nursery, withSatan.'

Sometimes Edith thought that her daughter's names were decidedly afailure--Aspasia by mistake, Matilda through obstinacy, and Dilly byaccident. However the child herself was a success. She was four yearsold when the incident occurred about the Mitchells. The whole of thisstory turns eventually on the Mitchells.

The Ottleys lived in a concise white flat at Knightsbridge. Bruce'sfather had some time ago left him a good income on certain conditions;one was that he was not to leave the Foreign Office before he wasfifty. One afternoon Edith was talking to the telephone in a voice ofagonised entreaty that would have melted the hardest of hearts, but didnot seem to have much effect on the Exchange, which, evidently, was notresponsive to pathos that day.

'Oh! Exchange, _why_ are you ringing off? _Please_ try again.... Do Iwant any number? Yes, I do want any number, of course, or why should Iring up?... I want 6375 Gerrard.'

'It's really rather wonderful, Edith, what that Sandow exerciser hasdone for me! You laughed at me at first, but I've improvedmarvellously.'

Bruce was walking about doing very mild gymnastics, and occasionallyhitting himself on the left arm with the right fist.' Look at mymuscle--look at it--and all in such a short time!'

'Wonderful!' said Edith.

'The reason I know what an extraordinary effect these few days have hadon me is something I have just done which I couldn't have done before.Of course I'm naturally a very powerful man, and only need a little--'

'What have you done?'

'Why--you know that great ridiculous old wooden chest that your awfulAunt Matilda sent you for your birthday--absurd present I call it--merelumber.'

'Yes?'

'When it came I could barely push it from one side of the room to theother. Now I've lifted it from your room to the box-room. Quiteeasily. Pretty good, isn't it?'

'Yes, of course it's very good for you to do all these exercises; nodoubt it's capital.... Er--you know I've had all the things taken outof the chest since you tried it before, don't you?'

'Things--what things? I didn't know there was anything in it.'

'Only a silver tea-service, and a couple of salvers,' said Edith, in alow voice....

...He calmed down fairly soon and said: 'Edith, I have some news foryou. You know the Mitchells?'

'Yes, and what I thought was so particularly jolly of him was that itwas a verbal invitation. Mitchell said to me, just like this, 'Ottley,old chap, are you doing anything on Sunday evening?''

Here Archie came to the door and said, 'Mother, can I have your longbuttonhook?'

Edith shook her head and frowned.

''Ottley, old chap,'' continued Bruce, ''are you and your wife doinganything on Sunday? If not, I do wish you would waive ceremony and comeand dine with us. Would Mrs Ottley excuse a verbal invitation, do youthink?' I said, 'Well, Mitchell, as a matter of fact I don't believe wehave got anything on. Yes, old boy, we shall be delighted.' I accepted,you see. I accepted straight out. When you're treated in a friendlyway, I always say why be unfriendly? And Mrs Mitchell is a charminglittle woman--I'm sure you'd like her. It seems she's been dying toknow you.'

'Fancy! I wonder she's still alive, then, because you and Mitchell haveknown each other for eight years, and I've never met her yet.'

'Well, you will now. Let bygones be bygones. They live in HamiltonPlace.'

'Oh yes....Park Lane?'

'I told you he was doing very well, and his wife has private means.'

'Mother,' Archie began again, like a litany, 'can I have your longbuttonhook? I know where it is.'

'Really. Edith!... My memory is unerring, dear. I never make a mistake.Haven't you ever noticed it?'

'A--oh yes--I think I have.'

'Well, it's 168 Hamilton Place. Look sharp, dear.'

On their way in the taxi he gave her a good many instructions andadvised her to be perfectly at her ease and _absolutely natural_; therewas nothing to make one otherwise, in either Mr or Mrs Mitchell. Also,he said, it didn't matter a bit what she wore, as long as she had puton her _best_ dress. It seemed a pity she had not got a new one, butthis couldn't be helped, as there was now no time. Edith agreed thatshe knew of no really suitable place where she could buy a new eveningdress at eight-thirty on Sunday evening. And, anyhow, he said, shelooked quite nice, really very smart; besides, Mrs Mitchell was not thesort of person who would think any the less of a pretty woman for beinga little dowdy and out of fashion.

When they drove up to what house agents call in their emotional way asuperb, desirable, magnificent town mansion, they saw that a largedinner-party was evidently going on. A hall porter and four powderedfootmen were in evidence.

'By Jove!' said Bruce, as he got out, 'I'd no idea old Mitchell didhimself so well as this.'... The butler had never heard of theMitchells. The house belonged to Lord Rosenberg.

'Confound it! 'said Bruce, as he flung himself into the taxi. 'Well!I've made a mistake for once in my life. I admit it. Of course, it'sreally Hamilton Gardens. Sorry. Yet somehow I'm rather glad Mitchelldoesn't live in that house.'

'You are perfectly right,' said Edith: 'the bankruptcy of an old friendand colleague could be no satisfaction to any man.'

Hamilton Gardens was a gloomy little place, like a tenement buildingout of Marylebone Road. Bruce, in trying to ring the bell,unfortunately turned out all the electric light in the house, and wasstanding alone in despair in the dark when, fortunately the porter, whohad been out to post a letter, ran back, and turned up the lightagain.... 'I shouldn't have thought they could play musical crambohere, 'he called out to Edith while he was waiting. 'And now isn't itodd? I have a funny kind of feeling that the right address is HamiltonHouse.'

'I think we'd better tell them what _has_ happened,' said Edith; 'itwill make them laugh. I hope they will have begun their dinner.'

'Surely they will have finished it.'

'Perhaps we may find them at their games!'

'Now, now, don't be bitter, Edith dear--never be bitter--life has itsups and downs.... Well! I'm rather glad, after all, that Mitchelldoesn't live in that horrid little hole.'

'I'm sure you are,' said Edith; 'it could be no possible satisfactionto you to know that a friend and colleague of yours is eitherdistressingly hard up or painfully penurious.'

They arrived at the house, but there were no lights, and no sign oflife. The Mitchells lived here all right, but they were out. Theparlourmaid explained. The dinner-party had been Saturday, the nightbefore....

'Strange,' said Bruce, as he got in again. 'I had a curiouspresentiment that something was going wrong about this dinner at theMitchells'.'

'What dinner at the Mitchells'? There doesn't seem to be any.'

'Do you know,' Bruce continued his train of thought, 'I felt certainsomehow that it would be a failure. Wasn't it odd? I often think I'm apessimist, and yet look how well I'm taking it. I'm more like afatalist--sometimes I hardly know what I am.'

'I could tell you what you are,' said Edith, 'but I won't, because nowyou must take me to the Carlton. We shall get there before it'sclosed.'

CHAPTER II

Opera Glasses

Whether to behave with some coolness to Mitchell, and be stand-offish,as though it had been all his fault, or to be lavishly apologetic, wasthe question. Bruce could not make up his mind which attitude to take.In a way, it was all the Mitchells' fault. They oughtn't to have givenhim a verbal invitation. It was rude, Bohemian, wanting in good form;it showed an absolute and complete ignorance of the most ordinary andelementary usages of society. It was wanting in common courtesy;really, when one came to think about it, it was an insult. On the otherhand, technically, Bruce was in the wrong. Having accepted he ought tohave turned up on the right night. It may have served them right (as hesaid), but the fact of going on the wrong night being a lesson to themseemed a little obscure. Edith found it difficult to see the point.

Then he had a more brilliant idea; to go into the office as cheerily asever, and say to Mitchell pleasantly, 'We're looking forward to nextSaturday, old chap,' pretending to have believed from the first thatthe invitation had been for the Saturday week; and that the dinner wasstill to come....

This, Edith said, would have been excellent, provided that theparlourmaid hadn't told them that she and Bruce had arrived about aquarter to ten on Sunday evening and asked if the Mitchells had begundinner. The chances against the servant having kept this curiousincident to herself were almost too great.

After long argument and great indecision the matter was settled by acordial letter from Mrs Mitchell, asking them to dinner on thefollowing Thursday, and saying she feared there had been some mistake.So that was all right.

Bruce was in good spirits again; he was pleased too, because he wasgoing to the theatre that evening with Edith and Vincy, to see a playthat he thought wouldn't be very good. He had almost beforehand settledwhat he thought of it, and practically what he intended to say.

But when he came in that evening he was overheard to have a strenuousand increasingly violent argument with Archie in the hall.

Edith opened the door and wanted to know what the row was about.

'Will you tell me, Edith, where your son learns such language? He keepson worrying me to take him to the Zoological Gardens to seethe--well--you'll hear what he says. The child's a perfect nuisance.Who put it into his head to want to go and see this animal? I wasobliged to speak quite firmly to him about it.'

Edith was not alarmed that Bruce had been severe. She thought it muchmore likely that Archie had spoken very firmly to him. He was alwaysstrict with his father, and when he was good Bruce found fault withhim. As soon as he grew really tiresome his father became abjectlyapologetic.

Archie was called and came in, dragging his feet, and pouting, in tearsthat he was making a strenuous effort to encourage.

'You must be firm with him,' continued Bruce. 'Hang it! Good heavens!Am I master in my own house or am I not?'

There was no reply to this rhetorical question.

He turned to Archie and said in a gentle, conciliating voice:

'Archie, old chap, tell your mother what it is you want to see. Don'tcry, dear.'

'Want to see the damned chameleon,' said Archie, with his hands in hiseyes. 'Want father to take me to the Zoo.'

'You can't go to the Zoo this time of the evening. What do you mean?'

'I want to see the damned chameleon.'

'You hear!' exclaimed Bruce to Edith.

'Who taught you this language?'

'Miss Townsend taught it me.'

'There! It's dreadful, Edith; he's becoming a reckless liar. Fancy herdreaming of teaching him such things! If she did, of course she must bemad, and you must send her away at once. But I'm quite sure shedidn't.'

'Come, Archie, you know Miss Townsend never taught you to say that.What have you got into your head?'

'Well, she didn't exactly teach me to say it--she didn't give melessons in it--but she says it herself. She said the damned chameleonwas lovely; and I want to see it. She didn't say I ought to see it. ButI want to. I've been wanting to ever since. She said it at lunch today,and I do want to. Lots of other boys go to the Zoo, and why shouldn'tI? I want to see it so much.'

'Edith, I must speak to Miss Townsend about this very seriously. In thefirst place, people have got no right to talk about queer animals tothe boy at all--we all know what he is--and in such language! I shouldhave thought a girl like Miss Townsend, who has passed examinations inGermany, and so forth, would have had more sense of herresponsibility--more tact. It shows a dreadful want of--I hardly knowwhat to think of it--the daughter of a clergyman, too!'

'It's all right, Bruce,' Edith laughed. 'Miss Townsend told me she hadbeen to see the _Dame aux Camelias_ some time ago. She was enthusiasticabout it. Archie dear, I'll take you to the Zoological Gardens andwe'll see lots of other animals. And don't use that expression.'

'What! Can't I see the da--'

'Mr Vincy,' announced the servant.

'I must go and dress,' said Bruce.

Vincy Wenham Vincy was always called by everyone simply Vincy. Appliedto him it seemed like a pet name. He had arrived at the right moment,as he always did. He was very devoted to both Edith and Bruce, and hewas a confidant of both. He sometimes said to Edith that he felt he wasjust what was wanted in the little home; an intimate stranger coming inoccasionally with a fresh atmosphere was often of great value (as, forinstance, now) in calming or averting storms.

Had anyone asked Vincy exactly what he was he would probably have saidhe was an Observer, and really he did very little else, though after heleft Oxford he had taken to writing a little, and painting less. He wasvery fair, the fairest person one could imagine over five years old. Hehad pale silky hair, a minute fair moustache, very good features, asingle eyeglass, and the appearance, always, of having been veryrecently taken out of a bandbox.

But when people fancied from this look of his that he was anempty-headed fop they soon found themselves immensely mistaken.

He was thirty-eight, but looked a gilded youth of twenty; and _was_sufficiently gilded (as he said), not perhaps exactly to becomfortable, but to enable him to get about comfortably, and see thosewho were.

He had a number of relatives in high places, who bored him, and werealways trying to get him married. He had taken up various occupationsand travelled a good deal. But his greatest pleasure was the study ofpeople. There was nothing cold in his observation, nothing of thecynical analyst. He was impulsive, though very quiet, immensely andardently sympathetic and almost too impressionable and enthusiastic. Itwas not surprising that he was immensely popular generally, as well asspecially; he was so interested in everyone except himself.

No-one was ever a greater general favourite. There seemed to be no typeof person on whom he jarred. People who disagreed on every othersubject agreed in liking Vincy.

But he did not care in the least for acquaintances, and spent muchingenuity in trying to avoid them; he only liked intimate friends, andof all he had perhaps the Ottleys were his greatest favourites.

His affection for them dated from a summer they had spent in the samehotel in France. He had become extraordinarily interested in them. Hedelighted in Bruce, but had with Edith, of course, more mutualunderstanding and intellectual sympathy, and though they metconstantly, his friendship with her had never been misunderstood.Frivolous friends of his who did not know her might amuse themselves bybeing humorous and flippant about Vincy's little Ottleys, but no-onewho had ever seen them together could possibly make a mistake. Theywere an example of the absurdity of a tradition--'the world's'proneness to calumny. Such friendships, when genuine, are nevermisconstrued. Perhaps society is more often taken in the other way. Butas a matter of fact the truth on this subject, as on most others, isalways known in time. No-one had ever even tried to explain away theintimacy, though Bruce had all the air of being unable to do withoutVincy's society sometimes cynically attributed to husbands in adifferent position.

Vincy was pleased with the story of the Mitchells that Edith told him,and she was glad to hear that he knew the Mitchells and had been to thehouse.

'How like you to know everyone. What did they do?'

'The night I was there they played games,' said Vincy. He spoke in asoft, even voice. 'It was just a little--well--perhaps just a _tiny_bit ghastly, I thought; but don't tell Bruce. That evening I thoughtthe people weren't quite young enough, and when they played 'Orangesand Lemons, and the Bells of St Clements,' and so on--their bonesseemed to--well, sort of rattle, if you know what I mean. But stillperhaps it was only my fancy. Mitchell has such very high spirits, yousee, and is determined to make everything go. He won't haveconventional parties, and insists on plenty of verve; so, of course,one's forced to have it.' He sighed. 'They haven't any children, andthey make a kind of hobby of entertaining in an unconventional way.'

'It sounds rather fun. Perhaps you will be asked next Thursday. Try.'

'I'll try. I'll call, and remind her of me. I daresay she'll ask me.She's very good-natured. She believes in spiritualism, too.'

'I wonder who'll be there?'

'Anyone might be there, or anyone else. As they say of marriage, it's alottery. They might have roulette, or a spiritual seance, or Kubelik,or fancy dress heads.'

'Fancy dress heads!'

'Yes. Or a cotillion, or just bridge. You never know. The house israther like a country house, and they behave accordingly. Evenhide-and-seek, I believe, sometimes. And Mitchell adores unpracticaljokes, too.'

'I see. It's rather exciting that I'm going to the Mitchells at last.'

'Yes, perhaps it will be the turning-point of your life,' said Vincy.'Ah! here's Bruce.'

'I don't think much of that opera glass your mother gave you,' Bruceremarked to his wife, soon after the curtain rose.

'It's the fashion,' said Edith. 'It's jade--the latest thing.'

'I don't care if it is the fashion. It's no use. Here, try it, Vincy.'

He handed it to Vincy, who gave Bruce a quick look, and then tried it.

'Rather quaint and pretty, I think. I like the effect,' he said,handing it back to Bruce.

'It may be quaint and pretty, and it may be the latest thing, and itmay be jade,' said Bruce rather sarcastically, 'but I'm not a slave tofashion. I never was. And I don't see any use whatever in an operaglass that makes everything look smaller instead of larger, and at agreater distance instead of nearer. I call it rot. I always say what Ithink. And you can tell your mother what I said if you like.'

'You're looking through it the wrong side, dear,' said Edith.

CHAPTER III

The Golden Quoribus

Edith had been very pretty at twenty, but at twenty-eight herprettiness had immensely increased; she had really become a beauty of aparticularly troubling type. She had long, deep blue eyes, clearly-cutfeatures, hair of that soft, fine light brown just tinged with redcalled by the French chatain clair; and a flower-like complexion. Shewas slim, but not angular, and had a reposeful grace and a decidedattraction for both men and women. They generally tried to express thisfascination by discovering resemblances in her to various well-knownpictures of celebrated artists. She had been compared to almost everytype of all the great painters: Botticelli, Sir Peter Lely,Gainsborough, Burne-Jones. Some people said she was like a Sargent,others called her a post-impressionist type; there was no end to theold and new masters of whom she seemed to remind people; and shecertainly had the rather insidious charm of somehow recalling the pastwhile suggesting something undiscovered in the future. There was a gooddeal that was enigmatic about her. It was natural, not assumed as apose of mysteriousness. She was not all on the surface: not obvious.One wondered. Was she capable of any depth of feeling? Was she alwaysjust sweet and tactful and clever, or could there be another side toher character? Had she (for instance) a temperament? This question wasconsidered one of interest,--so Edith had a great many admirers. Somewere new and fickle, others were old and faithful. She had never yetshown more than a conversational interest in any of them, but alwaysseemed to be laughing with a soft mockery at her own success.

Edith was not a vain woman, not even much interested in dress, thoughshe had a quick eye and a sure impressionistic gift for it. She wasalways an immense favourite with women, who felt subconsciouslygrateful to her for her wonderful forbearance. To have the power andnot to use it! To be so pretty, yet never _to take_ _anyone away_!--noteven coldly display her conquests. But this liking she did not, as arule, return in any decided fashion. She had dreadfully little to sayto the average woman, except to a few intimate friends, and franklypreferred the society of the average man, although she had not as yetdeveloped a taste for coquetry, for which she had, however, manynatural gifts. She was much taken up by Bruce, by Archie and Dilly, andwas fond of losing herself in ideas and in books, and in variousartistic movements and fads in which her interest was cultivated andperhaps inspired by Vincy. Vincy was her greatest friend and confidant.He was really a great safety-valve, and she told him nearly everythought.

Still, Archie was, so far, her greatest interest. He was a particularlypretty boy, and she was justified in thinking him rather unusual. Atthis period he spent a considerable amount of his leisure time not onlyin longing to see real animals, but in inventing and drawing picturesof non-existent ones--horrible creatures, or quaint creatures, forwhich he found the strangest names. He told Dilly about them, but Dillywas not his audience--she was rather his confidante and literaryadviser; or even sometimes his collaborator. His public consistedprincipally of his mother. It was a convention that Edith should befrightened, shocked and horrified at the creatures of his imagination,while Dilly privately revelled in their success. Miss Townsend, thegoverness, was rather coldly ignored in this matter. She had a way ofspeaking of the animals with a smile, as a nice occupation to keep thechildren quiet. She did not understand.

'Please, Madam, would you kindly go into the nursery; Master Archiewishes you to come and hear about the golden--something he's just madeup like,' said Dilly's nurse with an expression of resignation.

Edith jumped up at once.

'Oh dear! Tell Master Archie I'm coming.'

She ran into the nursery and found Archie and Dilly both looking ratherexcited; Archie, fairly self-controlled, with a paper in his hand onwhich was a rough sketch which he would not let her see, and hid behindhim.

'Mother,' Archie began in a low, solemn voice, rather slowly, 'thegolden quoribus is the most horrible animal, the most awful-lookinganimal, you ever heard of in _your_ life!'

'Oh-h-h! How awful!' said Edith, beginning to shiver. 'Wait amoment--let me sit down quietly and hear about it.'

She sat down by the fire and clasped her hands, looking at him with aterrified expression which was part of the ritual.

Dilly giggled, and put her thumb in her mouth, watching the effect withwidely opened eyes.

'Much more awful than the gazeka, of course, I suppose?' Edith saidrather rashly.

'No... the golden quoribus is far-ar-r-r-r more frightening even thanthe jilbery. Do you remember how awful _that_ was? And much larger.'

'What! Worse than the jilbery! Oh, good gracious! How dreadful! What'sit like?'

'First of all--it's as long as from here to Brighton,' said Archie.

'A little longer,' said Dilly.

'(Shut up, miss!) As long. It's called the golden quoribus because it'sbright gold, except the bumps; and the bumps are green.'

'Bright green,' said Dilly.

'(Oh, will you hold your tongue, Dilly?) Green.'

'How terrible!... And what shape is it?'

'All pointed and sharp, and three-cornered.'

'Does it breathe fire?' asked Edith.

Archie smiled contemptuously.

'Breathe fire! Oh, Mother! Do you think it's a silly dragon in a fairystory? Of course it doesn't. How can it breathe fire?'

'Sorry,' said Edith apologetically. 'Go on.'

'_But_, the peculiar thing about it, besides that it lives entirely onmuffins and mutton and the frightening part, I'm coming to now.' Hebecame emphatic, and spoke slowly. 'The golden quoribus has more clawsthan any... other... animal... in the whole world!'

'Oh-h-h,' she shuddered.

'Yes,' said Archie solemnly. 'It has large claws coming out of itshead.'

'Its head! Good gracious!'

'It has claws here and claws there; claws coming out of the eyes; andclaws coming out of the ears; and claws coming out of its shoulders;and claws coming out of the forehead!'

Edith shivered with fright and held up her hands in front of her eyesto ward off the picture.

'And claws coming out of the mouth,' said Archie, coming a step nearerto her and raising his voice.

Edith jumped.

'And claws coming out of the hands, and claws coming out of the feet!'

'Yes,' said Dilly, wildly and recklessly and jumping up and down, 'andclaws on the ceiling, and claws on the floor, and claws all over theworld!'

With one violent slap she was sent sprawling.

Shrieks, sobs and tears filled the quiet nursery.

'I know,' said Archie, when he had been persuaded to apologise, 'ofcourse I know a gentleman oughtn't to hit a lady, not even--I mean,especially not if she's his little sister. But oh, Mother, ought a ladyto interrupt a story?'

When Edith told Vincy he entirely took Archie's side.

Suppose Sargent were painting a beautiful picture, and one of hispupils, snatching the paint-brush from him, insisted on finishing it,and spoiling it--how would he like it? Imagine a poet who had justwritten a great poem, and been interrupted in reciting it by someonewho quickly finished it off all wrong! The author might be forgivenunder such circumstances if in his irritation he took a strong line. InVincy's opinion it served Dilly jolly well right. Young? Of course shewas young, but four (he said) was not a day too soon to begin to learnto respect the work of the artist. Edith owned that Archie was noteasily exasperated and was as a rule very patient with the child. Brucetook an entirely different view. He was quite gloomy about it andfeared that Archie showed every sign of growing up to be an Apache.

CHAPTER IV

The Mitchells

The Mitchells were, as Vincy had said, extremely hospitable; they had aperfect mania for receiving; they practically lived for it, and the bighouse at Hampstead, with its large garden covered in, and a sort ofstudio built out, was scarcely ever without guests. When they didn'thave some sort of party they invariably went out.

Mitchell's great joy was to make his parties different from others bysome childish fantasy or other. He especially delighted in a surprise.He often took the trouble (for instance) to have a telegram sent toevery one of his guests during the course of the evening. Each of thesewires contained some personal chaff or practical joke. At other timeshe would give everyone little presents, concealed in some way.Christmas didn't come once a year to the Mitchells; it seemed never togo away. One was always surprised not to find a Christmas tree andcrackers. These entertainments, always splendidly done materially, andcuriously erratic socially, were sometimes extremely amusing; atothers, of course, a frost; it was rather a toss-up.

And the guests were, without exception, the most extraordinary mixturein London. They included delightful people, absurd people, averagepeople; people who were smart and people who were dowdy, some who wererespectable and nothing else, some who were deplorable, othersbeautiful, and many merely dull. There was never the slightest attemptat any sort of harmonising, or of suitability; there was a great dealof kindness to the hard-up, and a wild and extravagant delight in anynovelty. In fact, the Mitchells were everything except exclusive, andas they were not guided by any sort of rule, they really lived, in StJohn's Wood, superior to suburban or indeed any other restrictions.They would ask the same guests to dinner time after time, six or seventimes in succession. They would invite cordially a person of noattraction whatsoever whom they had only just met, and they wouldbehave with casual coolness to desirable acquaintances or favouritefriends whom they had known all their lives. However, there was nodoubt that their parties had got the name for being funny, and that wasquite enough. London people in every set are so desperate for somethingout of the ordinary way, for variety and oddness, that the Mitchellswere frequently asked for invitations by most distinguished persons whohoped, in their blase fatigue, to meet something new and queer.

For the real Londoner is a good deal of a child, and loves Punch andJudy shows, and conjuring tricks (symbolically speaking)--and is alsooften dreaming of the chance of meeting some spring novelty, in the wayof romance. Although the Mitchells were proud of these successes theywere as free from snobbishness as almost anyone could be. On the wholeMrs Mitchell had a slight weakness for celebrities, while Mr Mitchellpreferred pretty women, or people who romped. It was merely fromcarelessness that the Ottleys had never been asked before.

When Edith and Bruce found themselves in the large squarecountry-house-looking hall, with its oak beams and early Englishfireplace, about twenty people had arrived, and as many more wereexpected. A lively chatter had already begun; for each woman had beenoffered on her arrival a basket from which she had to choose a brightlycoloured ribbon. These ribbons matched the rosettes presented in anequally haphazard way to every man. As Vincy observed, it gave one therather ghastly impression that there was going to be a cotillion atonce, on sight, before dinner; which was a little frightening. Inreality it was merely so that the partners for the meal should bechosen by chance. Mitchell thought this more fun than arranging guests;but there was an element of gambling about it that made wary peoplenervous. Everyone present would have cheated had it been possible. Butit was not.

Mrs Mitchell was a tiny brown-eyed creature, who looked absurdly young;she was kind, sprightly, and rather like a grouse. Mitchell was ajovial-looking man, with a high forehead, almost too much ease ofmanner, and a twinkling eye.

The chief guests tonight consisted of Lord Rye, a middle-agedsuffraget, who was known for his habit of barking before he spoke andfor his wonderful ear for music--he could play all Richard, Oscar andJohann Strauss's compositions by ear on the piano, and never mixed themup; Aylmer Ross, the handsome barrister; Myra Mooney, who had been onthe stage; and an intelligent foreigner from the embassy, with adecoration, a goat-like beard, and an Armenian accent. Mrs Mitchellsaid he was the minister from some place with a name like Ruritania.She had a vague memory. There was also a Mr Cricker, a very young manof whom it was said that he could dance like Nijinsky, but never would;and the rest were chiefly Foreign Office clerks (like Mitchell andBruce), more barristers and their wives, a soldier or two, someundergraduates, a lady photographer, a few pretty girls, and vaguepeople. There were to be forty guests for dinner and a few more in theevening.

Almost immediately on her arrival Edith noticed a tall, clean-shavenman, with smooth fair hair, observant blue eyes, and a rather humorousexpression, and she instantly decided that she would try to will him totake her to dinner. (Rather a superfluous effort of magnetism, since itmust have been settled already by fate and the ribbons.) It was obviousfrom one quick glance that he shared the wish. To their absurdly greatmutual disappointment (a lot of ground was covered very quickly at theMitchells), their ribbons didn't match, and she was taken to dinner byCaptain Willis, who looked dull. Fortune, however, favoured her. On herother side she found the man who looked amusing. He was introduced toher across the table by Mrs Mitchell, with _empressement_, as Mr AylmerRoss.

Edith felt happy tonight; her spirits were raised by what she felt tobe an atmosphere _tiede_, as the French say; full of indulgence,sympathetic, relaxing, in which either cleverness or stupidity couldfloat equally at its ease. The puerility of the silly littlearrangements to amuse removed all sense of ceremony. The note is alwaysstruck by the hostess, and she was everything that was amiable, withouteffort or affectation.

No-one was ever afraid of her.

Bruce's neighbour at dinner was the delicate, battered-lookingactress, in a Royal fringe and a tight bodice with short sleeves, whohad once been a celebrity, though no-one remembered for what. Miss MyraMooney, formerly a beauty, had known her days of success. She had beenthe supreme performer of ladylike parts. She had been known as the veryquintessence of refinement. It was assumed when she first came out thata duke would go to the devil for her in her youth, and that in her latematurity she would tour the provinces with _The Three Musketeers_.Neither of these prophecies had, however, been fulfilled. She stilloccasionally took small middle-aged titled parts in repertoirematinees. She was unable to help referring constantly to the hit shemade in _Peril_ at Manchester in 1887; nor could she ever resistspeaking of the young man who sent her red carnations every day of hisblighted existence for fifteen years; a pure romance, indeed, for, asshe owned, he never even wished to be introduced to her. She stillcalled him poor boy, oblivious of the fact that he was now sixty-eight,and, according to the illustrated papers, spent his entire time ingiving away a numberless succession of daughters in brilliant marriageat St George's, Hanover Square.

In this way Miss Mooney lived a good deal in the past, but she was notunaware of the present, and was always particularly nice to peoplegenerally regarded as bores. So she was never without plenty ofinvitations. Mitchell had had formerly a slight _tendre_ for her, andin his good nature pretended to think she had not altered a bit. Shewas still refined _comme cela ne se fait plus_; it was practically nolonger possible to find such a perfect lady, even on the stage. As shealso had all the easy good nature of the artist, and made herselfextremely agreeable, Bruce was delighted with her, and evidentlythought he had drawn a prize.

'I wondered,' Aylmer Ross said, 'whether this could possibly happen.First I half hoped it might; then I gave it up in despair.'

'Oh, well, I have second sight too--any amount; only it's always wrong.However!...'

'Aren't the Mitchells dears?' said Edith.

'Oh, quite. Do you know them well?'

'Very well, indeed. But I've never seen them before.'

'Ah, I see. Well, now we've found our way here--broken the ice and thatsort of thing--we must often come and dine with them, mustn't we, MrsOttley? Can't we come again next week?'

'Very sweet of you to ask us, I'm sure.'

'Not at all; very jolly of us to turn up. The boot is on the other leg,or whatever the phrase is. By the way, I'm sure you know everything,Mrs Ottley, tell me, did people ever wear only one boot at a time, doyou think, or how did this expression originate?'

'I wonder.'

Something in his suave manner of taking everything for granted seemedto make them know each other almost too quickly, and gave her an oddsort of self-consciousness. She turned to Captain Willis on her otherside.

'I say,' he said querulously, 'isn't this a bit off? We've got the samecoloured ribbons and you haven't said a word to me yet! Rather rot,isn't it, what?'

'Oh, haven't I? I will now.'

Captain Willis lowered his voice to a confidential tone and said: 'Doyou know, what I always say is--live and let live and let it go atthat; what?'

'That's a dark saying,' said Edith.

'Have a burnt almond,' said Captain Willis inconsequently, as though itwould help her to understand. 'Yes, Mrs Ottley, that's what I alwayssay.... But people won't, you know--they won't--and there it is.' Heseemed resigned. 'Good chap, Mitchell, isn't he? Musical chairs, Ibelieve--that's what we're to play this evening; or bridge, whicheverwe like. I shall go in for bridge. I'm not musical.'

'And which shall you do?' asked Aylmer of Edith. He had evidently beenlistening.

'Neither.'

'We'll talk then, shall we? I can't play bridge either.... MrsOttley--which is your husband? I didn't notice when you came in.'

'I feel all the time, somehow, as if he were calling me by my Christianname without an introduction, or as if he wanted me to exchange hatswith him,' she said. 'He's so fearfully familiar with his readers.'

'But you think he keeps at a respectful distance from his characters?However--why worry about books at all, Mrs Ottley? Flowers, lilies ofthe field, and so forth, don't toil or spin; why should they belong tolibraries? I don't think you ever ought to read--except perhapssometimes a little poetry, or romance.... You see, that is what youare, rather, isn't it?'

'Don't you care for books?' she answered, ignoring the compliment. 'Ishould have thought you loved them, and knew everything about them. I'mnot sure that I know.'

'You know quite enough, believe me,' he answered earnestly. 'Oh, don'tbe cultured--don't talk about Lloyd George! Don't take an intelligentinterest in the subjects of the day!'

'All right; I'll try not.'

She turned with a laugh to Captain Willis, who seemed very depressed.

'I say, you know,' he said complainingly, 'this is all very well. It'sall very well no doubt. But I only ask one thing--just one. Is thiscricket? I merely ask, you know. Just that--is it cricket; what?'

'It isn't meant to be. What's the matter?'

'Why, I'm simply fed up and broken-hearted, you know. Hardly two wordshave I had with you tonight, Mrs Ottley.... I suppose that chap'sawfully amusing, what? I'm not amusing.... I know that.'

'Oh, don't say that. Indeed you are.' she consoled him.

'Am I though?'

'Well, you amuse _me_!'

'Right!' He laughed cheerily. He always filled up pauses with a laugh.

CHAPTER V

The Surprise

Certainly Mrs Mitchell on one side and Captain Willis on the other hadsuffered neglect. But they seemed to become hardened to it towards theend of dinner....

Though only by the merest, slightest movement of an eyelash Edith couldnot avoid showing her surprise. No-one ever had less the air of amarried man. Also, she was quite ridiculously disappointed. One can'tsay why, but one doesn't talk to a married man quite in the same way orso frankly as to a bachelor--if one is a married woman. She did not askabout his wife, but said:

'Fancy! Boys are rather nice things to have about, aren't they?'

She was looking round the table, trying to divine which was Mrs AylmerRoss. No, she wasn't there. Edith felt sure of it. It was anunaccountable satisfaction.

'Yes; he's all right. And now give me a detailed description of _your_children.'

'I can't. I never could talk about them.'

'I see.... I should like to see them.... I saw you speak to Vincy. Dearlittle fellow, isn't he?'

'He's a great friend of mine.'

'I'm tremendously devoted to him, too. He's what used to be called anexquisite. And he _is_ exquisite; he has an exquisite mind. But, ofcourse, you know what a good sort he is.'

'Rather.'

'He seems rather to look at life than to act in it, doesn't he?'continued Aylmer. 'He's a brilliant sort of spectator. Vincy thinksthat all the world's a stage, but _he's_ always in the front row of thestalls. I never could be like that ... I always want to be right in thethick of it, on in every scene, and always performing!'

'To an audience?' said Edith.

He smiled and went on.

'What's so jolly about him is that though he's so quiet, yet he'sgenial; not chilly and reserved. He's frank, I mean--and confiding.Without ever saying much. He expresses himself in his own way.'

'That's quite true.'

'And, after all, it's really only expression that makes things real.'If you don't talk about a thing, it has never happened.''

'But it doesn't always follow that a thing has happened because you dotalk about it,' said Edith. 'Ah, Mrs Mitchell's going !'

She floated away.

He remained in a rather ecstatic state of absence of mind.

* * * * *

Mrs Mitchell gladly told Edith all about Aylmer Ross, how clever hewas, how nice, how devoted to his little boy. He had married veryyoung, it seemed, and had lost his wife two years after. This was tenyears ago, and according to Mrs Mitchell he had never looked at anotherwoman since. Women love to simplify in this sentimental way.

'However,' she said consolingly, 'he's still quite young, under forty,and he's sure to fall in love and marry again.'

'No doubt,' said Edith, wishing the first wife had remained alive. Shedisliked the non-existent second one.

* * * * *

Nearly all the men had now joined the ladies in the studio, with theexception of Bruce and of Aylmer Ross. Mrs Mitchell had taken animmense fancy to Edith and showed it by telling her all about awonderful little tailor who made coats and skirts better than Lucilefor next to nothing, and by introducing to her Lord Rye and the embassyman, and Mr Cricker. Edith was sitting in a becoming corner under ashaded light from which she could watch the door, when Vincy came up totalk to her.

'You seemed to get on rather well at dinner,' he said.

'Yes; isn't Captain Willis a dear?'

'Oh, simply sweet. So bright and clever. I was sure you'd like him,Edith.'

Captain Willis here came up and said, a shade more jovially than he hadspoken at dinner, with his laugh:

'Well, you know, Mrs Ottley, what I always say is--live and let liveand let it go at that; what? But they never _do_, you know! Theywon't--and there it is!'

Edith now did a thing she had never done in her life before and whichwas entirely unlike her. She tried her utmost to retain the group roundher, and to hold their attention. For a reason of which she was hardlyconscious, she wanted Aylmer Ross to see her surrounded. The ministerfrom the place with a name like Ruritania was so immensely bowled overthat he was already murmuring in a low voice (almost a hiss, as theysay in melodrama): 'Vous etes chez vous, quand? Dites un mot, un motseulement, et je me precipiterai a vos pieds_,' while at the same time,in her other ear, Lord Rye was explaining (to her pretended intenseinterest) how he could play the whole of _Elektra, The ChocolateSoldier_ and _Nightbirds_ by ear without a single mistake. ('Perfectlysound!' grumbled Captain Willis, 'but why do it?') Vincy was listening,enjoying himself. Bruce came in at last, evidently engaged in anabsorbed and intimate conversation with Aylmer Ross. They seemed somuch interested in their talk that they went to the other end of theroom and sat down there together. Aylmer gave her one glance only.

Edith was unreasonably annoyed. What on earth could he and Bruce findto talk about? At length, growing tired of her position, she got up,and walked across the room to look at a picture on the wall, turningher graceful back to the room.

Bruce had now at last left his companion, but still Aylmer Ross did notgo and speak to her, though he was sitting alone.

Musical chairs began in the studio. Someone was playing 'Baby,look-a-here,' stopping suddenly in the middle to shouts of laughter andshrieks from the romping players. In the drawing-room some of thepeople were playing bridge. How dull the rest of the evening was! Justbefore the party practically broke up, Edith had an opportunity ofsaying as she passed Aylmer:

'I wonder,' he said, smiling, 'and if so, whose. Well, I hope to seeyou again soon.'

'_What_ a success your charming wife has had tonight,' said MrsMitchell to Bruce, as they took leave. 'Everyone is quite wild abouther. How pretty she is! You _must_ be proud of her.'

They were nearly the last. Mr Cricker, who had firmly refused the wholeevening, in spite of abject entreaties, to dance like Nijinsky,suddenly relented when everyone had forgotten all about it, and wasleaping alone in the studio, while Lord Rye, always a great lingerer,was playing Richard Strauss to himself on the baby Grand, and smoking ahuge cigar.

'Edith,' said Bruce solemnly, as they drove away, 'I've made a friendtonight. There was one really charming man there--he took an immensefancy to me.'

'Oh--who was that?'

'Who was that?' he mimicked her, but quite good-naturedly. 'How stupidwomen are in some things! Why, Aylmer Ross, the chap who sat next toyou at dinner! I suppose you didn't appreciate him. Very clever, veryinteresting. He was anxious to know several things which I was glad tobe in a position to tell him. Yes--an awfully good sort. I asked him todine at my club one day, to go on with our conversation.'

'Oh, did you?'

'Yes. Why shouldn't I? However, it seems from what he said that hethinks the Carlton's nicer for a talk, so I'm going to ask him thereinstead. You can come too, dear. He won't mind; it won't prevent ourtalking.'

'Oh, are we going to give a dinner at the Carlton?'

'I wish you wouldn't oppose me, Edith. Once in a way! Of course Ishall. Our flat's too small to give a decent dinner. He's one of thenicest chaps I've ever met.'

'Well, do you want me to write tomorrow morning then, dear?'

'Er--no--I have asked him already.'

'Oh, really--which day?'

'Well, I suggested next Thursday--but he thought tomorrow would bebetter; he's engaged for every other day. Now don't go and say you'reengaged tomorrow. If you are, you'll have to chuck it!'

'Oh no; I'm not engaged.'

Mentally rearranging her evening dress, Edith drove home thoughtfully.She was attracted and did not know why, and for the first time hopedshe had made an impression. It had been a long evening, and herheadache, she said, necessitated solitude and darkness at once.

'All right. I've got a much worse headache--gout, I think, but nevermind about me. Don't be anxious, dear! I say, that Miss Mooney is avery charming woman. She took rather a fancy to me, Edith. Er--youmight ask her to dinner too, if you like, to make a fourth!'

'But--really! Ought we to snatch all the Mitchells' friends the firsttime, Bruce?'

'Why, of course, it's only courteous. It's all right. One must returntheir hospitality.'

CHAPTER VI

The Visit

The following afternoon Edith was standing by the piano in hercondensed white drawing-room, trying over a song, which she wasaccompanying with one hand, when to her surprise the maid announced 'MrAylmer Ross.' It was a warm day, and though there was a fire thewindows were open, letting in the scent of the mauve and pink hyacinthsin the little window-boxes. She thought as she came forward to meet himthat he seemed entirely different from last night. Her first impressionwas that he was too big for the room, her second that he was veryhandsome, and also a little agitated.

'I really hardly know how to apologise, Mrs Ottley. I oughtn't to haveturned up in this cool way. But your husband has kindly asked me todine with you tonight, and I wasn't sure of the time. I thought I'dcome and ask you.' He waited a minute. 'Of course, if I hadn't been sofortunate as to find you in, I should just have left a note.' He lookedround the room.

* * * * *

Obviously it was quite unnecessary for him to have called; he couldhave sent the note that he had brought with him. She was flattered. Shethought that she liked his voice and the flash of his white teeth whenhe smiled.

'Oh, I'm glad I'm at home,' she said, in a gentle way that put him athis ease, and yet at an immense distance. 'I felt in the mood to stopat home and play the piano today. I'm delighted to see you.' They satdown by the fire. 'It's at eight tonight. Shall we have tea?'

'Oh no, thanks; isn't it too early? I sha'n't keep you a moment. Thanksvery much.... You were playing something when I came in. I wish you'dplay it to me over again.'

* * * * *

Nine women out of ten would have refused, saying they knew nothing ofmusic, or that they were out of practice, or that they never playedexcept for their own amusement, or something of the kind; especially ifthey took no pride whatever in that accomplishment. But Edith went backto the piano at once, and went on trying over the song that she didn'tknow, without making any excuse for the faltering notes.

'That's charming,' he said. 'Thanks. Tosti, of course.'

She came back to the fireplace. 'Of course. We had great fun lastnight, didn't we?'

'Oh, _I_ enjoyed myself immensely; part of the time at least.'

'But after dinner you were rather horrid, Mr Ross. You wouldn't comeand talk to me, would you?'

'Wouldn't I? I was afraid. Tell me, do I seem many years older sincelast night?' he asked.

'I don't see any difference. Why?'

'Because I've lived months--almost years--since I saw you last. Timedoesn't go by hours, does it?... What a charming little room this is.It suits you. There's hardly anything in it, but everything is right.'

'I don't like to have many things in a room,' said Edith, holding outher delicate hands to the fire. 'It makes me nervous. I have graduallyaccustomed Bruce to my idea by removing one thing at a time--photographs, pictures, horrid old wedding presents, all thelittle things people have. They suggest too many different trains ofthought. They worry me. He's getting used to it now. He says, soonthere'll be nothing left but a couple of chairs and a bookcase!'

'And how right! I've had rather the same idea in my house, but Icouldn't keep it up. It's different for a man alone; things seem toaccumulate; especially pictures. I know such a lot of artists. I'm veryunfortunate in that respect.... I really feel I oughtn't to have turnedup like this, Mrs Ottley.'

'Why not?'

'You're very kind.... Excuse my country manners, but how nice yourhusband is. He was very kind to me.'

'He liked _you_ very much, too.'

'He seems charming,' he repeated, then said with a change of tone andwith his occasional impulsive brusqueness, 'I wonder--does he ever jaron you in any way?'

'Oh no. Never. He couldn't. He amuses me,' Edith replied softly.

'Oh, does he?... If I had the opportunity I wonder if I should _amuse_you,' he spoke thoughtfully.

'No; I don't think you would at all,' said Edith, looking him straightin the face.

'That's quite fair,' he laughed, and seemed rather pleased. 'You mean Ishould bore you to death! Do forgive me, Mrs Ottley. Let's go on withour talk of last night.... I feel it's rather like the Palace of Truthhere; I don't know why. There must be something in the atmosphere--Iseem to find it difficult not to think aloud--Vincy, now--do you seemuch of Vincy?'

'Oh yes; he comes here most days, or we talk on the telephone.'

'I see; he's your confidant, and you're his. Dear Vincy. By the way, heasked me last night to go to a tea-party at his flat next week. He wasgoing to ask one or two other kindred spirits--as I think they'recalled. To see something--some collection. Including you, of course?'

'I shall certainly go,' said Edith, 'whether he asks me or not.'

Aylmer seemed to be trying to leave. He nearly got up once or twice andsat down again.

'Well, I shall see you tonight,' he said. 'At eight.'

'Yes.'

'What shall you wear, Mrs Ottley?'

'Oh, I thought, perhaps, my mauve chiffon? What do you advise?' shesmiled.

'Not what you wore last night?'

'Oh no.'

'It was very jolly. I liked it. Er--red, wasn't it?'

'Oh no! It was pink!' she answered.

Then there was an extraordinary pause, in which neither of them seemedable to think of anything to say. There was a curious sort of vibrationin the air.

'Isn't it getting quite springy?' said Edith, as she glanced at thewindow. 'It's one of those sort of warm days that seem to have gotmixed up by mistake with the winter.'

'Very,' was his reply, which was not very relevant.

Another pause was beginning.

'Mr Vincy,' announced the servant.

He was received with enthusiasm, and Aylmer Ross now recovered his easeand soon went away.

'Edith!' said Vincy, in a reproving tone. '_Really_! How _very_ soon!'

'He came to know what time we dine. He was just passing.'

'Oh, yes. He would want to know. He lives in Jermyn Street. Isuppose Knightsbridge is on his way to there.'

'From where?' she asked.

'From here,' said Vincy.

'What happened after we left?' said Edith. 'I saw the Cricker manbeginning to dance with hardly anyone looking at him.'

'Isn't his imitation of Nijinsky wonderful?' asked Vincy.

'Simply marvellous! I thought he was imitating George Grossmith. Do youknow, I love the Mitchells, Vincy. It's really great fun there. Fancy,Bruce seems so delighted with Aylmer Ross and Miss Mooney that heinsisted on their both dining with us tonight.'

'He seemed rather carried away, I thought. There's a fascination aboutAylmer. There are so many things he's not,' said Vincy.

'Tell me some of them.'

'Well, for one thing, he's not fatuous, though he's so good-looking.He's not a lady-killing sort of person or anything else tedious.'

She was delighted at this especially.

'If he took a fancy to a person--well, it might be rather serious, ifyou take my meaning,' said Vincy.

'How sweet of him! So unusual. Do you like Myra Mooney?'

'Me? Oh, rather; I'm devoted to her. She's a delightful type. Get heron to the subject of the red carnations. She's splendid about them....She received them every day at breakfast-time for fifteen years.Another jolly thing about Aylmer is that he has none of that awfulold-fashioned modernness, thank goodness!'

'Ah, I noticed that.'

'I suppose he wasn't brilliant today. He was too thrilled. But, do bejust a teeny bit careful, Edith dear, because when he is at all he'svery much so. Do you see?'

'What a lot you seem to think of one little visit, Vincy! After all, itwas only one.'

'There hasn't been time yet for many more, has there, Edith dear? Hecould hardly call twice the same day, on the first day, too.... Yes, Icome over quite queer and you might have knocked me down with afeather, in a manner of speaking, when I clapped eyes on him settinghere.'

Edith liked Vincy to talk in his favourite Cockney strain. Itcontrasted pleasantly with his soft, even voice and _raffine_appearance.

'Here's Bruce,' she said.

Bruce came in carrying an enormous basket of gilded straw. It wasfilled with white heather, violets, lilies, jonquils, gardenias andmimosa. The handle was trimmed with mauve ribbon.

'Oh, Bruce! How angelic of you!'

'Don't be in such a hurry, dear. These are not from me. They arrivedjust at the same time that I did. Brought by a commissionaire. Therewas hardly room for it in the lift.'

Edith looked quickly at the card. It bore the name of the minister ofthe place with a name like Ruritania.

'What cheek!' exclaimed Bruce, who was really flattered. 'What infernalimpertinence. Upon my word I've more than half a mind to go and tellhim what I think of him--straight from the shoulder. What's theaddress?'

'Grosvenor Square.'

'Well, I don't care. I shall go straight to the embassy,' said Bruce.'No, I sha'n't. I'll send them back and write him a line--tell him thatEnglishwomen are not in the habit of accepting presents fromundesirable aliens.... I consider it a great liberty. Aren't I right,Vincy?'

'Quite. But perhaps he means no harm, Bruce. I daresay it's the customin the place with the funny name. You see, you never know, in a placelike that.'

'Then you don't think I ought to take it up?'

'I don't want them. It's a very oppressive basket,' Edith said.

'How like you, Edith! I thought you were fond of flowers.'

'So I am, but I like one at a time. This is too miscellaneous andcrowded.'

'Some women are never satisfied. It's very rude and ungrateful to thepoor old man, who meant to be nice, no doubt, and to show his respectfor Englishwomen. I think you ought to write and thank him,' saidBruce. 'And let me see the letter before it goes.'

CHAPTER VII

Coup de Foudre

When Aylmer Ross got back to the little brown house in Jermyn Street hewent to his library, and took from a certain drawer an ivory miniatureframed in black. He looked at it for some time. It had a sweet,old-fashioned face, with a very high forehead, blue eyes, and dark hairarranged in two festoons of plaits, turned up at the sides. Itrepresented his mother in the early sixties and he thought it was likeEdith. He had a great devotion and cult for the memory of his mother.When he was charmed with a woman he always imagined her to be like hismother.

He had never thought this about his wife People had said howextraordinarily Aylmer must have been in love to have married thatuninteresting girl, no-one in particular, not pretty and a littlesecond-rate. As a matter of fact the marriage had happened entirely byaccident. It had occurred through a misunderstanding during a game ofconsequences in a country house. She was terribly literal. Having takensome joke of his seriously, she had sent him a touchingly coy lettersaying she was overwhelmed at his offer (feeling she was hardly worthyto be his wife) and must think it over. He did not like to hurt herfeelings by explaining, and when she relented and accepted him hecouldn't bear to tell her the truth. He was absurdly tender-hearted,and he thought that, after all, it didn't matter so very much. Thelittle house left him by his mother needed a mistress; he wouldprobably marry somebody or other, anyhow; and she seemed such aharmless little thing. It would please her so much! When the hurriedmarriage had come to a pathetic end by her early death everyone wastragic about it except Aylmer. All his friends declared he washeart-broken and lonely and would never marry again. He had indeed beenshocked and grieved at her death, but only for her--not at being leftalone. That part, was a relief. The poor little late Mrs Aylmer Rosshad turned out a terrible mistake. She had said the wrong thing frommorning till night, and, combining a prim, refined manner with a vulgarpoint of view, had been in every way dreadfully impossible. He hadreally been patience and unselfishness itself to her, but he hadsuffered. The fact was, he had never even liked her. That was thereason he had not married again.

But he was devoted to his boy in a quiet way. He was the sort of manwho is adored by children, animals, servants and women. Tall, strongand handsome, with intelligence beyond the average, yet with nothingalarming about him, good-humoured about trifles, jealous in matters oflove--perhaps that is, after all, the type women really like best. Itis sheer nonsense to say that women enjoy being tyrannised over. Nodoubt there are some who would rather be bullied than ignored. But thehectoring man is, with few exceptions, secretly detested. In so far asone can generalise (always a dangerous thing to do) it may be said thatwomen like best a kind, clever man who can be always trusted; andoccasionally (if necessary) deceived.

Aylmer hardly ever got angry except in an argument about ideas. Yet hisfeelings were violent; he was impulsive, and under his suave andeasy-going manner emotional. He was certainly good-looking, but had henot been he would have pleased all the same. He seemed to radiatewarmth, life, a certain careless good-humour. To be near him was likewarming one's hands at a warm fire. Superficially susceptible andinclined to be experimental he had not the instinct of the collectorand was devoid of fatuousness. But he could have had more genuinesuccesses than all the Don Juans and Romeos and Fausts who ever climbedrope ladders. Besides his physical attraction he inspired a feeling ofreliance. Women felt safe with him; he would never treat anyone badly.He inspired that kind of trust enormously in men also, and his housewas constantly filled with people asking his advice and begging him todo things--sometimes not very easy ones. He was always being leftguardian to young persons who would never require one, and said himselfhe had become almost a professional trustee.

As Aylmer was generous and very extravagant in a way of his own (thoughhe cared nothing for show), he really worked hard at the bar to add tohis already large income. He always wanted a great deal of money. Herequired ease, margin and elbow-room. He had no special hobbies, but heneeded luxury in general of a kind, and especially the luxury ofgetting things in a hurry, his theory being that everything comes tothe man who won't wait. He was not above detesting little materialhardships. He was not the sort of man, for instance, even in hisyoungest days, who would go by omnibus to the gallery to the opera, tohear a favourite singer or a special performance; not that he had thefaintest tinge of snobbishness, but simply because such triflingdrawbacks irritated him, and spoilt his pleasure.

Impressionistic as he was in life, on the other hand, curiously,Aylmer's real taste in art and decoration was Pre-Raphaelite;delicate, detailed and meticulous almost to preciousness. He often haddelightful things in his house, but never for long. He had no pleasurein property; valuable possessions worried him, and after any amount oftrouble to get some object of art he would often give it away the nextweek. For he really liked money only for freedom and ease. The generallook of the house was, consequently, distinguished, sincere andextremely comfortable. It was neither hackneyed nor bizarre, and, whileit contained some interesting things, had no superfluities.

Aylmer had been spoilt as a boy and was still wilful and a littleimpatient. For instance he could never wait even for a boy-messenger,but always sent his notes by taxi to wait for an answer. And now hewanted something in a hurry, and was very much afraid he would neverget it.

Aylmer was, as I have said, often a little susceptible. This time hefelt completely bowled over. He had only seen her twice. That made nodifference.

The truth was--it sounds romantic, but is really scientific, allromance being, perhaps, based on science--that Edith's appearancecorresponded in every particular with an ideal that had grown up withhim. Whether he had seen some picture as a child that had left a vagueand lasting impression, or whatever the reason was, the moment he sawher he felt, with a curious mental sensation, as of something that fellinto its place with a click ('Ca y est!'), that she realised somehalf-forgotten dream. In fact, it was a rare and genuine case of _coupde foudre_. Had she been a girl he would have proposed to her the nextday, and they might quite possibly have married in a month, and livedhappily ever after. These things occasionally happen. But she wasmarried already.

Had she been a fool, or a bore, a silly little idiot or a fisher ofmen, a social sham who prattled of duchesses or a strenuous femininepolitician who babbled of votes; a Christian Scientist bent onconverting, an adventuress without adventures (the worst kind), amind-healer or a body-snatcher, a hockey-player or even a ladynovelist, it would have been exactly the same; whatever she had been,mentally or morally, he would undoubtedly have fallen in love with herphysically, at first sight. But it was very much worse than that. Hefound her delightful, and clever; he was certain she was an angel. Shewas married to Ottley. Ottley was all right.... Rather an ass ...rather ridiculous; apparently in every way but one.

* * * * *

So absurdly hard hit was Aylmer that it seemed to him as if to see heragain as soon as possible was already the sole object in his life. Didshe like him? Intuitively he felt that during his little visit hisintense feeling had radiated, and not displeased--perhaps a littleimpressed--her. He could easily, he knew, form a friendship with them;arrange to see her often. He was going to meet her tonight, through hisown arrangement. He would get them to come and dine with him soon--no,the next day.

What was the good?

Well, where was the harm?

Aylmer had about the same code of morals as the best of his numerousfriends in Bohemia, in clubland and in social London. He was no morescrupulous on most subjects than the ordinary man of his own class.Still, _he had been married himself_. That made an immense difference,for he was positively capable of seeing (and with sympathy) from thehusband's point of view. Even now, indifferent as he had been to hisown wife, and after ten years, it would have caused him pain and furyhad he found out that she had ever tried to play him false. Of course,cases varied. He knew that if Edith had been free his one thought wouldhave been to marry her. Had she been different, and differently placed,he would have blindly tried for anything he could get, in any possibleway. But, as she was?... He felt convinced he could never succeed inmaking her care for him; there was not the slightest chance of it. And,supposing even that he could? And here came in the delicacy and scrupleof the man who had been married himself. He thought he wouldn't evenwish to spoil, by the vulgarity of compromising, or by the shadow of asecret, the serenity of her face, the gay prettiness of that life. No,he wouldn't if he could. And yet how exciting it would be to rouse herfrom that cool composure. She was rather enigmatic. But he thought shecould be roused. And she was so clever. How well she would carry itoff! How she would never bore a man! And he suddenly imagined a daywith her in the country.... Then he thought that his imagination wasflying on far too fast. He decided not to be a hopeless fool, but justto go ahead, and talk to her, and get to know her; not to think toomuch about her. She needn't even know how he felt. To idolise her froma distance would be quite delightful enough. When a passion is notrealised, he thought, it fades away, or becomes ideal worship--Dante--Petrarch--that sort of thing! It could never fade awayin this case, he was sure. How pretty she was, how lovely her mouth waswhen she smiled! She had no prejudices, apparently; no affectations;how she played and sang that song again when he asked her! With what adelightful sense of humour she had dealt with him, and also with Bruce,at the Mitchells. Ottley must be a little difficult sometimes. She hadread and thought; she had the same tastes as he. He wondered if shewould have liked that thing in _The Academy_, on Gardens, that he hadjust read. He began looking for it. He thought he would send it to her,asking her opinion; then he would get an answer, and see herhandwriting. You don't know a woman until you have had a letter fromher.

But no--what a fool he would look! Besides he was going to see hertonight. It was about time to get ready.... Knowing subconsciously thathe had made some slight favourable impression--at any rate that hehadn't repelled or bored her--he dressed with all the anxiety, joy andthrills of excitement of a boy of twenty; and no boy of twenty can everfeel these things as keenly or half as elaborately as a man nearlytwice that age, since all the added experiences, disillusions,practice, knowledge and life of the additional years help to form apart of the same emotion, making it infinitely deeper, and all thestronger because so much more _averti_ and conscious of itself.

He seemed so nervous while dressing that Soames, the valet, to whom hewas a hero, ventured respectfully to hope there was nothing wrong.

He went out laughing, leaving the valet smiling coldly out ofpoliteness.

* * * * *

Soames never understood any kind of jest. He took himself and everyoneelse seriously. But he already knew perfectly well that his master hadfallen in love last night, and he disapproved very strongly. He thoughtall that sort of thing ought to be put a stop to.

CHAPTER VIII

Archie's Essay

'Mrs Ottley,' said Miss Townsend,' do you mind looking at this essay ofArchie's? I really don't know what to think of it. I think it showstalent, except the spelling. But it's _very_ naughty of him to havewritten what is at the end.'

Edith took the paper and read:

'TRAYS OF CHARACTER

trays of character will always show threw how ever much you may polishit up trays of character will always show threw the grane of the wood.

A burd will keep on singing because he wants to and they can't helpdoing what it wants this is instinkt. and it is the same with trays ofcharicter. having thus shown my theory that trays of carocter willalways show threw in spite of all trubble and in any circemstanceswhatever I will conclude Archibald Bruce Ottley please t.o.'

On the other side of the paper was written very neatly, still inArchie's writing:

'Do you see?' said Miss Townsend. 'It's his way of slyly calling poorDilly a beast, because he's angry with her. Isn't it a shame? Whatshall I do?' Both of them laughed and enjoyed it.

'Archie, what is the meaning of this? Why did you make this census ofyour home?' Edith asked him gently.

'Why, I didn't make senses of my home; I just wrote down who livedhere.'

Edith looked at him reproachfully.

'Well, I didn't call Dilly a beast. I haven't broken Miss Townsend'srules. She made a new rule I wasn't to call her a beast beforebreakfast--'

'What, you're allowed to call her these awful names after breakfast?'

'No. She made a rule before breakfast I wasn't to call Dilly a beast,and I haven't. How did you know it meant her anyway? It might havemeant somebody else.'

'That's prevaricating; it's mean--not like you, Archie.'

'Well, I never called her a beast. No-one can say I did. And besides,anybody would have called her a beast after how she went on.'

'What are you angry with the child for?'

'Oh, she bothers so. The moment I imitate the man with the Germanaccent she begins to cry. She says she doesn't like me to do it. Shesays she can't bear me to. Then she goes and tells Miss Townsend Islapped her, and Miss Townsend blames me.'

'Then you shouldn't have slapped her; it was horrid of you; you oughtto remember she's a little girl and weaker than you.'

'I did remember...'

'Oh, Archie!'

'Well, I'll make it up if she begs my pardon; not unless she does Isha'n't,' said Archie magnanimously.

'I shall certainly not allow her to do anything of the kind.'

At this moment Dilly came in, with her finger in her tiny mouth, andwent up to Archie, drawling with a pout, and in a whining voice:

'I didn't mean to.'

Archie beamed at once.

'That's all right, Dilly,' he said forgivingly.

Then he turned to his mother.

'Mother, have you got that paper?'

'Yes, I have indeed!'

'Well, cross out--that, and put in Aspasia Matilda Ottley. Sorry,Dilly!' He kissed her, and they ran off together hand in hand; lookinglike cherubs, and laughing musically.

CHAPTER IX

Aylmer

At the Carlton Aylmer had easily persuaded Bruce and Edith to dine withhim next day, although they were engaged to the elder Mrs Ottleyalready. He said he expected two or three friends, and he convincedthem they must come too. It is only in London that people meet for thefirst time at a friend's house, and then, if they take to each other,practically live together for weeks after. No matter what socialengagements they may happen to have, these are all thrown aside for thenew friend. London people, with all their correctness, are really moreunconventional than any other people in the world. For instance, inParis such a thing could never happen in any kind of _monde_, unless,perhaps, it were among artists and Bohemians; and even then it would betheir great object to prove to one another that they were not wantingin distractions and were very much in demand; the lady, especially,would make the man wait for an opportunity of seeing her again, fromcalculation, to make herself seem of more value. Such second-ratesolicitudes would never even occur to Edith. But she had a scrupleabout throwing over old Mrs Ottley.

* * * * *

'Won't your mother be disappointed?' Edith asked.

'My dear Edith, you can safely leave that to me. Of course she'll bedisappointed, but you can go round and see her, and speak to her nicelyand tell her that after all we can't come because we've got anotherengagement.'

'Don't be in a hurry, dear. Don't rush things; remember... she's mymother. Perhaps to you, Edith, it seems a rather old-fashioned idea,and I daresay you think it's rot, but to me there's something verysacred about the idea of a mother.' He lit a cigarette and looked inthe glass.

'Yes, dear. Then, don't you think we really ought to have kept ourpromise to dine with her? She'll probably be looking forward to it. Idaresay she's asked one or two people she thinks we like, to meet us.'

'Circumstances alter cases, Edith. If it comes to that, Aylmer Ross hasgot two or three people coming to dine with him whom he thinks we mightlike. He said so himself. That's why he's asked us.'

'Yes, but he can't have asked them on purpose, Bruce, because, you see,we didn't know him on Thursday.'

'Well, why should he have asked them on purpose? _How_ you argue! _How_you go on! It really seems to me you're getting absurdly exacting andtouchy, Edith dear. I believe all those flowers from the embassy havepositively turned your head. _Why_ should he have asked them onpurpose. You admit yourself that we didn't even know the man lastThursday, and yet you expect--' Bruce stopped. He had got into a slighttangle.

Edith looked away. She had not quite mastered the art of the inwardsmile.

'Far better, in my opinion,' continued Bruce, walking up and down theroom.--'Now, don't interrupt me in your impulsive way, but hear meout--it would be far more kind and sensible in every way for you to sitright down at that little writing-table, take out your stylographic penand write and tell my mother that I have a bad attack of influenza....Yes; one should always be considerate to one's parents. I suppose itreally is the way I was brought up that makes me feel this so keenly,'he explained.

Edith sat down to the writing-table. 'How bad is your influenza?'

'Oh, not very bad; because it would worry her: a slight attack.--Stop!Not so very slight--we must let her think it's the ordinary kind, andthen she'll think it's catching and she won't come here for a few days,and that will avoid our going into the matter in detail, which would bebetter.'

'If she thinks it's catching, dear, she'll want Archie and Dilly, andMiss Townsend and Nurse to go and stay with her in South Kensington,and that will be quite an affair.'

'Right as usual; very thoughtful of you; you're a clever little womansometimes, Edith. Wait!'--he put up his hand with a gesture frequentwith him, like a policeman stopping the traffic at Hyde Park Corner.'Wait!--leave out the influenza altogether, and just say I've caught aslight chill.'

'Yes. Then she'll come over at once, and you'll have to go to bed.'

'My dear Edith,' said Bruce, 'you're over-anxious; I shall do nothingof the kind. There's no need that I should be laid up for this. It'snot serious.'

He was beginning to believe in his own illness, as usual.

'Air! (I want to go round to the club)--tonic treatment!--that's thething!--that's often the very best thing for a chill--this sort ofchill.... Ah, that will do very nicely. Very neatly written....Good-bye, dear.'

* * * * *

As soon as Bruce had gone out Edith rang up the elder Mrs Ottley on thetelephone, and relieved her anxiety in advance. They were greatfriends; the sense of humour possessed by her mother-in-law took thesting out of the relationship.

* * * * *

The dinner at Aylmer's house was a great success. Bruce enjoyed himselfenormously, for he liked nothing better in the world than to give hisopinion. And Aylmer was specially anxious for his view as to theauthenticity of a little Old Master he had acquired, and took notes,also, of a word of advice with regard to electric lighting, admittinghe was not a very practical man, and Bruce evidently was.

Edith was interested and pleased to go to the house of her new friendand to reconstruct the scene as it must have been when Mrs Aylmer Rosshad been there.

Freddy, the boy, was at school, but there was a portrait of him.Evidently he resembled his father. The sketch represented him with thesame broad forehead, smooth, dense light hair, pale blue eyes undereyebrows with a slight frown in them, and the charming mouth ratherfully curved, expressing an amiable and pleasure-loving nature. The boywas good-looking, but not, Edith thought, as handsome as Aylmer.

The only other woman present was Lady Everard, a plump, talkative,middle-aged woman in black; the smiling widow of Lord Everard, and wellknown for her lavish musical hospitality and her vague andindiscriminate good nature. She bristled with aigrettes and sparkledwith diamonds and determination. She was marvellously garrulous aboutnothing in particular. She was a woman who never stopped talking for asingle moment, but in a way that resembled leaking rather than layingdown the law. Tepidly, indifferently and rather amusingly she prattledon without ceasing, on every subject under the sun, and was socially avaluable help because where she was there was never an awkwardpause--or any other kind.

Vincy was there and young Cricker, whose occasional depressed silenceswere alternated with what he called a certain amount of sparklingchaff.

Lady Everard told Edith that she felt quite like a sort of mother toAylmer.

'Don't you think it's sad, Mrs Ottley,' she said, when they were alone,'to think that the dear fellow has no wife to look after this dearlittle house? It always seems to me such a pity, but still, I alwayssay, at any rate Aylmer's married once, and that's more than most ofthem do nowadays. It's simply horse's work to get them to do it at all.Sometimes I think it's perfectly disgraceful. And yet I can't helpseeing how sensible it is of them too; you know, when you think of it,what with one thing and another, what does a man of the present dayneed a wife for? What with the flats, where everything on earth is donefor them, and the kindness of friends--just think how bachelors arespoilt by their married friends!--and their clubs, and the frightfulexpense of everything, it seems to me, as a general rule, that theaverage man must be madly unselfish or a perfect idiot to marry atall--that's what it seems to me--don't you? When you think of all theresponsibilities they take upon themselves!--and I'm sure there are notmany modern wives who expect to do anything on earth but have theirbills and bridge debts paid, and their perpetual young men asked todinner, and one thing and another. Of course, though, there are someexceptions.' She smiled amiably. 'Aylmer tells me you have two